“So that’s what it sounds like?” Drake looked up. “I’ve often wondered.”
But Cray was busy, writing. His pencil fairly shook as it sped over the paper.
“What’s that?”
Drake looked over his shoulder. Too late, Cray shoved a hand over what he had written, for Drake had seen, seen plainly, the uncompleted sentences:
All ships.
Varnavosk died this morning.
Communicate with us if....
“You seen, hey?” Cray fidgeted, seemed annoyed; yet he might be pretending. He was, at any rate, ill at ease.
“You seen? Well, what’s a Russky more or less to you or me? Don’t tell the Old Man I showed you. The others came in code. This one’s plain English. Best beat it; I’ve got to take this to the Old Man.”
Drake got up and walked silently out. On the threshold Cray stopped him with:
“Ever know any Russians, Drake? Some of them is big men—hard fighters. Take a powerful man to handle them.”
“Meaning—” Drake spun about fiercely— “Meaning—”